She would not even let herself cry at night, lest her eyes should betray her to him in the morning.
On his last evening at home they went together to Rainbow Valley and sat down on the bank of the brook, under the White Lady, where the gay revels of olden days had been held in the cloudless years.

Rainbow Valley was roofed over with a sunset of unusual splendour that night; a wonderful grey dusk just touched with starlight followed it; and then came moonshine, hinting, hiding, revealing, lighting up little dells and hollows here, leaving others in dark, velvet shadow.
"When I am 'somewhere in France,'" said Walter, looking around him with eager eyes on all the beauty his soul loved, "I shall remember these still, dewy, moon-drenched places.

The balsam of the fir-trees; the peace of those white pools of moonshine; the 'strength of the hills'-- what a beautiful old Biblical phrase that is.

Rilla! Look at those old hills around us--the hills we looked up at as children, wondering what lay for us in the great world beyond them.

How calm and strong they are--how patient and changeless--like the heart of a good woman.